


Tearing Apart, Stitching Together

by fewlmewn (Shouriko)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Character Study, Crying, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:39:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2906135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shouriko/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A character study on Garrett Hawke, and all the times his bottled up feelings had gotten the best of him, and how the people close to him helped him go forward and keep fighting against all odds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tearing Apart, Stitching Together

**Author's Note:**

> Written based on the prompt "Crying". I wanted to write something a bit more explicit but when I got aboard the feel train, words kept flowing in this direction so here it is. A study on all the times Garrett felt like crying.

There had been times when Garrett Hawke had cried in earnest. Before everything that had happened, it was mostly childhood memories that brought up the feeling of tears that stung in his eyes and that made his lip tremble. Sometimes it had been the gushing wind over the hills surrounding Lothering, in winter. He was out with his father to pick up roots, before the harsher climate forbid any growth of what Malcolm needed for his poultices. The air made his skin prickle and his cheeks were bright red and his nose dripped like a mountain stream. Ad his eyes had watered until he couldn't see anything but blurry shapes. He very nearly fell down the rocky hill they had climbed but his father's hands were around him in no time to grip his coat tightly and hauling him back on his clumsy feet.

Then it was the disappointment and anger in failing Malcolm while casting a spell. He could feel the tears surging up and threatening to fall freely but his mother had touched his shoulder lightly, to reassure him that it was alright, that they had to practise so that nothing bad would've happened. That was the first time a spell had gone so wrong, almost making the barn catch on fire. Thankfully his father was ready for it. It was a mix of self-hatred for not being in better control, and the feeling of helplessness in knowing his father almost expected him to fail.

That night, when his mother was done reassuring him that it was alright and his father had patted him on the arm one last time, he hid under the blanket and sobbed full of resentment for having been cursed with such a terrifying power.

He was fifteen when templars marched through the village carrying a young girl, in shackles and with dried traces of tears along her cheeks and his father ushered him back inside their house. That evening he cried thinking that it wasn't right that someone had to be held prisoner for being what the Maker made them. That it was a gift to be treasured and used to help others, not something to be blamed for and accused of.

But then those childhood memories faded and paled in comparison to the rest.

His father's funeral. His mother crying and crying. Bethany sobbing into his shoulder and Carver clenching his jaw so hard he thought he would've broken something inside his mouth. He did not cry that time, he had to stay strong for his mother, his sister, to be an example for his brother, who apparently didn't want to crumble either. But his heart spilled bitter tears.

The man running into the tavern, saying that there had been sightings of darkspawn. He looked at Carver and his brother looked back at him. They dropped their beer and cider and hurried home. It was true, and then Carver went off saying that the King wanted to end the Blight before it had the time to start properly, that he wanted to show his worth and go help. He enlisted, grabbed his best sword and ran off, even though he knew he would've been given a standard issue weapon as soon as he had reached the outpost.

The first tears came with the messenger that said King Cailan had been defeated and the Grey Wardens had betrayed him. When the first refugees came, filling the Chantry and the inn. And amidst the fear of templars finding out about him and Bethany, he feared for his brother.

He thought he wouldn't have seen Carver again. Leandra cried almost every night for a week, Bethany tried to stay strong but the concern was too great.

Tears of relief washed down the dirt and sweat when Carver ran to them in commoner clothes and a rusty greatsword strapped on his back to hug Bethy so hard it hurt. They packed in a haste leaving what little was left of Lothering, and they knew they wouldn't have seen the village again.

The relief of being together didn't last long. The darkspawn were behind every corner, hiding inside every nook of the blighted land that surrounded them in rotting corpses and flames. Overseeing them from the top of every rock. The tears were stored inside with the sheer exertion of the fight, the adrenaline and fear too great to let the salty drops escape his focused eyes. He fell as many of the monsters as he could, Carver sliced them with no grace but with a force he was thankful for. Bethany shielded their mother with spell after spell until she was too drained. But she had to protect them, she had blamed herself for letting Carver go to Ostagar, she wasn't going to let her twin storm out into danger once more. But she was too tired, and the ogre too ferocious. It was a sight he didn't wish upon his worst enemy.

She was almost in bits, bones and tendons keeping together what little was left of her middle.

There was nothing they could have done, not even with Aveline and Ser Wesley, who had despised them since the minute the templar had laid eyes upon the two apostates. The pure and simple thirst for revenge pushed the two brothers to fight and maim the horrifying monster that had taken their little sister.

And there was no room for tears, they had to run.

There was no time to mourn, but the weeks on the boat passed between the disgusting advances of some sailors to poor Leandra and Carver's seasickness. And all the while he could hear his mother's sobs as they laid down on their miserable cots mirrored in the voice of his brother and his own.

He had cried other times, out of frustration, of helplessness. He had choked back tears when Fenris had left, making him think he was not enough, or too much, or wrong, not the right person to stay by his side. Both of them were broken, and he felt like Fenris could've put his pieces back together if they stayed by each other's side, but he feared he had just shattered the elf even more after their night together. And he let him leave.

 

The back of his throat and his nose itched when Bodhan had mentioned lilies. The air prickling at his face like needles while he ran to Lowtown didn't help but at least he could pretend it was the reason behind his watering eyes. The knot in his chest didn't seem to dissolve, no matter how many times he swallowed or shook his head in the poor attempt to clear it, to be reasonable. The terror was too much, he prepared for the worst but it wasn't enough for the truth.

The portrait, the letters. His heart clenched in his chest, so painfully he thought he couldn't have been able to breathe ever again. Walking through the threshold, praying to see someone else in the tattered dress, choosing to ignore the stitching at the woman's wrists that indicated something very wrong was going on, if everything else didn't hint as much already.

The female figure turned around with a mechanical grace, clearly created with spells and whatever form of enchantment. It disgusted him to know he was of the same sort as someone who did this, and he swore he wouldn't have been a blood mage if he'd been given all the gold in Thedas. Never in his whole life had he hated magic this much. Granted, the terrible things done to those women and to his mother could've been the work of a simple psychopath, using swords and daggers instead of magic. But if it hadn't been a necromancer, he wouldn't have had to face the patchwork his mother was part of. It was desecration, it terrified him, he felt so hollow and helpless.

And he had to fight those women, the ghost of his mother. He did not fight well, Varric's bolts were all that kept the demons at a distance. The claws ripped through his armour, broke his skin, but he didn't care. The pain was the only thing keeping him awake when all inside of him threatened to be a horrible vision. The agony in his heart was mirrored at every wound received and he was on his knees when the blood dripping from his arms and face reminded him this was real, it was no nightmare. At the same time the pain was the only link he had to stay somewhat vigil and alert during the fight, but was also the constant reminder of what was happening.

The demon vanished with a twirl, he was exhausted. Fenris leapt and carved out the mage's heart as soon as it was evident Hawke hadn't any more will to avenge his mother in him.

With the last few moments of life she had, Leandra told him how proud she was of him, and Carver too. She was going to join Malcolm and Bethy. Garrett cried with bitterness and feeling the agony settle deep inside of his guts, making his stomach churn and protest. Fenris tried to be by his side and eventually apologized for running away that night. It was hard, the tears surprised him from time to time and he just had to let them flow, no amount of resolve would've stopped them, but with Fenris by his side, again, he knew life would've gone on for as long as he kept being strong. And when they were together, it was easier.

 

He didn't cry after that, but he felt sick and his stomach was in knots whenever someone asked him to take a side. He couldn't do it, when so many asked him to kill Anders. He didn't want his friend's blood on his hands, not this time. He didn't agree with his actions, he did not condone his ways but he understood, and after everything they had gone through, he felt that redemption was the only thing he would've forced against him, not a blade, not an execution, not now. Sebastian left in a haste, promising to avenge the deaths Anders, the Abomination, had caused. He nearly cried at that, feeling once again helpless in facing the dire situation they had come to, templars, mages and Chantry alike. It pained him to remember how he was alive only because his father had been aided by a templar as he escaped from the Circle. How many more Champions, heroes and outright good men and women and elves hid and were being kept prisoner inside the Circles throughout Thedas. It wasn't just blood mages that were being restrained and punished for what the Maker had decided for them, it was people who could've had families, a loving home, or saved this or that land from whatever Blight or invasion had occurred. Not everyone had been as lucky as Malcolm Hawke, or Garrett, or Anders. Fenris didn't protest when he forgave Anders, although it wasn't his forgiveness that could've changed things or how guilty he felt. Choking back tears for what felt like the thousandth time, he entered the Gallows with Fenris, loyal at his side, not faltering and not leaving even as Garrett made his decisions. And Anders, who was ever so grateful for being given another chance he wasn't sure he deserved, all the while the Spirit bubbled just beneath the surface seeking to give justice to those innocents whose lives had been taken, but he wasn't given that just yet. And Varric, the first friend he had made in this unforgiving city built on grief, tears and blood.

 

When it was over, they scrammed, each going their own way. A couple of lone tears rolled down his cheek before he packed and left his friends behind. But the dusty streets of Kirkwall were lined with too much pain of his own, he couldn't bear walking where his mother had and his sister couldn't any longer.

Now there was only Fenris at his side, a blood-red stripe of cloth at his wrist and the memory of the Amell legacy carved in a badge secured to his belt, a connection to what Garrett had been, what they had been and hopefully would've continued to be as they left the city. Together.


End file.
